The One With Retribution
by greenish orange
Summary: [Complete] Rachel laments the outcome of her relationship with Ross. CR. RR.


**A/N: **I had the itch. I caught the bug. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a Chandler/Rachel story. But before you start throwing furniture and/or expired products at me, please give it a chance. If I could do it, so can you. So, what are you waiting for? Go ahead and take the plunge. I beseech you.

-

Rachel reached for the doorknob of Apartment 20, desperately attempting to calm her flip-flopping heart. She fumbled in her purse for a compact mirror and came up empty-handed. She knew she looked terrible, dull, ashen – she had rubbed runny mascara off her cheeks until they were burning with rawness. She knew she had dark shadows under her eyes. She couldn't seem to take more than three breaths before erupting into painful hiccoughs.

It had been weeks. Days, and she was angry, spiteful. A week, and she had been snide and resentful. Weeks, and she was overwhelmed with grief. She adored her date tonight. How could she not? He was a kind, smart, successful, handsome man. But he wasn't Ross. And so, tearful, she apologized and left. When her friends would hear about it later, he would be unpleasant, stupid, ugly, washed-up, and no one would ask questions. It was better that way.

Rachel opened the door and hung up her coat. As she scanned the room, she spotted Chandler lazing about on the chair, eating microwave popcorn, and regarded him with an unusual surge of affection. It was just so typical, that even if everything else in her life collapsed and changed, her friends would not.

"Hey, you freeloader," she called out, retrieving Monica's forbidden chocolate chips from the freezer. Chandler leaned backwards over the armrest and grinned at her upside down.

"Hey, sugar," he greeted.

"Chocolate chips?"

"You betcha." Rachel poured the chocolate chips into a bowl, popped a few into her mouth, and dropped onto the couch. Chandler swallowed whatever he was eating and fished in the bowl for his own handful. "Hey, so how was your date?"

"Lousy," she replied instantly. "How're you?"

"Well," he said, turning off the television, "I'm over here, lounging around as Joey gets laid across the hall, eating stale junk food, and watching Jeopardy on a Friday night. Could I _be _more pathetic?" Rachel laughed and he looked at her closely. He touched her hand. "You okay? You look sort of . . . wishy-washy."

"Wishy-washy?" Rachel repeated, in a voice she hoped sounded nonchalant. But as she looked into Chandler's face, she felt a dam break. Tears came to her eyes. Avoiding his gaze, she absently observed his hand. "Yeah, okay, you caught me," she choked. "Yeah, I guess I'm a bit wishy-washy."

"How come?" he asked patiently, tracing circles on her hand with his thumb.

"I-I don't know," she said, wiping at her eyes. "I-I mean, I go on these dates, and I meet these w-wonderful guys, you know? But I feel nothing. And, it's like, I-I want to get back together with R-Ross, but I can't, because I can't forgive him for what he d-did . . . I would be stupid to go back to s-someone who had done something that u-unforgivable . . . wouldn't I?"

"I don't think so," he said softly.

"Well, I do. Sometimes." She sniffed and wiped at her wayward tears. She tried to laugh. "_Now_ who's the pathetic one?"

"I'm tempted to say you, but that might come out wrong." Rachel laughed, in a brief way that tugged at mercilessly at Chandler's heartstrings; he quickly sandwiched her hand in between his own and peered sincerely into her face. "Listen, Rach," he said. "I've had my share of relationship crap, too, you know. And if I've learned anything from utter failure is that there's a reason. If you and Ross are meant to be together, it'll happen. If you're not, it won't. But there's a reason for everything, there has to be."

Rachel felt her heart constrict. "But," she whispered, like a terrified child, "what if it doesn't happen? What if we're so damn stubborn we can't figure it out? What if I'm so hung up on Ross I don't realize I'm supposed to be with someone else? What if I never –" Suddenly, without warning, she broke into sobs, and Chandler was beside her, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead as he whispered words of comfort in her ear. She shivered at his touch, shook with tumultuous sobs. And before she knew it, she was trembling with anger. Anger at Ross, for making her feel this weak and foolish. Anger at Ross, for sleeping with that slut. Anger at Ross, for jeopardizing their picture-perfect relationship. Anger at herself, for wanting him back.

She was blindingly aware of where Chandler's hands touched her, how they threaded her hair and rested on her waist. How close he was, how good he smelled. How blue his eyes were. Had she never before noticed just how handsome he really was?

"Mmmm, Chandler, thank you," she murmured, as she brought her head closer to his face. She allowed her lips to graze his ear, and was furiously delighted when she felt his hands quaver and grasp her shoulders tighter.

"Of course," he said.

Rachel looked into his eyes, clouded over with bewilderment, and wanted to kiss him. She ached to feel the comfort of his hands roaming across her body. She wanted to hurt Ross. She wanted to hurt him like he had hurt her. She wanted to cry.

It was so easy. There was nothing binding them, either of them. Only friendship. And she could convince herself that she really wanted it, just as she could convince herself that he wanted it too. Was it so terrible, so cowardly, to want retribution? To want closure?

She straddled his lap, smiled, linked her arms around his neck. They were both breathing heavily. Rachel could hear his heart pounding. His eyes asked her what she was doing. She didn't know. Her heart was failing her, she knew it; ambivalence tugged at her; her body willed her to proceed, and without warning, she was kissing him frantically, shuddering at the realization of it, wondering if he could taste her animosity as she tasted his confusion. She gripped his hair tightly and her nails dug into his scalp. Her body wracked with sobs.

It was Chandler who ended it all. Chandler who laid her on the couch and covered her with her favorite beige throw. Chandler who brought her a mug of hot chocolate and helped her drink it. Chandler who smiled and smoothed back her hair and told her everything was okay.

He finally left when he thought she was asleep. In the darkness, Rachel shivered and clutched at her blanket. She wrapped her hands around the lukewarm mug of cocoa. She marveled at herself, at the wreckage she had become, and prayed he would someday forgive her.


End file.
